


Ill spirits walk in white

by zenzeromante



Category: A3! (Video Game)
Genre: Age Difference, Cruising, Daddy Issues, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Omorashi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:21:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26819482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zenzeromante/pseuds/zenzeromante
Summary: On a late night run, Tenma gets lost in a very peculiar place.The pressure was almost asphyxiating. It was a mixture of dread, daze and relief that curled around his guts, pressing, squeezing, strangling, until all Tenma could feel were the stabbing twinges rushing through his hips, down his shaking thighs.A3! NSFW Week — Day 4: Bodily fluids
Relationships: Hyuuga Hiro/Sumeragi Tenma
Comments: 3
Kudos: 21
Collections: Ass! Addict! Actors! an A3! NSFW Week





	Ill spirits walk in white

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Ill spirits walk in white](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26684491) by [zenzeromante](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zenzeromante/pseuds/zenzeromante). 



> This was my entry for [A3! NSFW Week](https://twitter.com/A3NSFWweek/)! Many, many, many thanks to [Carpy](https://twitter.com/kurodagumis) for beta-reading!
> 
> As for the fic itself:  
> \- it's set somewhere in act 10, but there are no spoilers (other than, you know, Hiro existing)  
> \- the title comes from “To His Mistress Going to Bed” by John Donne  
> \- please, read the tags carefully before continuing  
> \- and then, hope you enjoy it!

It was already too late when Tenma noticed he’d taken a detour. He wasn’t _lost_ , just distracted; nothing much, nothing worrying. It could’ve happened to anyone. And it wasn’t like he didn’t know where he was: he could, if he wanted to, find the way home without much effort.

He just needed to remember where he’d come from.

Sure, it would’ve been easier if the streets and the benches didn’t all look the same under the gloomy lights of the lampposts. But that was how a popular, busy actor lived his life: he only had time to work out late at night. And no matter how everyone had cautioned him against it, how Yuki had made fun of his lousy sense of direction, how Tasuku, a worried frown showing on his face, had offered to accompany him. That night, more than anything else, Tenma had needed to take a break. From the dorm, from his troupe mates, from his colleagues—from everything that uprooted him from his equilibrium, already unstable from too much stress.

Not even taking care of his bonsai had helped him. Not that Tenma had been surprised by that. In those moments, when criticism stabbed him deep and compliments sounded fake, the only thing that Tenma could do was shut every voice up before he could even listen.

Which wasn’t as easy when all those voices came from inside his head, from the memories of that same set that was waiting for him the next day.

That’s why Tenma had decided to leave his phone at home, wear his jogging sweats, and rush out of the dorm, set on thinking about nothing but the movements of his body. While running, as often happened, his mind had started to fog up, and his thoughts had been replaced by the lines and the scenes that Tenma had studied with clinical precision. And while thinking of how to execute them, what mannerisms to match them with, how to make them flow in response to his co-actors, and to one of them in particular—there he was, suddenly in some part of the city he didn’t recognize.

A short glance at his wristwatch told him it was already past ten o’clock. He’d run for more than an hour, his mind too busy to notice, and now he didn’t remember what path he had taken, or what streets he had crossed. And most importantly, he didn’t remember the last time he’d met someone along the way.

Everything around him was steeped in darkness. The only sparks of light came from the bulbs of the street lamps. Shallow, weak. Faltering. Other than that, only shadows. Near the bushes, in front of the benches.

At Tenma’s side.

He flinched, stiff and tense. He brought a hand down his stomach, right where a tight grip of terror had grabbed him by the guts, and let his reluctant gaze wander towards his right.

There was nothing there.

Tenma chuckled, a strident, squeaky sound—a desperate attempt at freeing himself from the cold shivers that run down his sweaty back. And then he sighed, straightening himself up, while that dark shape laid out on the ground silently mimicked his every move.

Stupid shadow. It followed him slowly, floating around at every step, swaying under his feet, with the phantom intention of tripping him. It had almost succeeded, taking him by surprise.

Sighing once more, Tenma smoothed the shirt on his stomach and took a few steps forwards. He was trying not to look behind him, not to let himself get distracted by the dark shapes around the edges of his path, but they kept moving, restlessly, following him, swiftly; and the more Tenma rushed on, the more they danced around him, reaching out like deformed hands, their unsheathed claws intent on grabbing onto him and dragging him into the bushes.

In that unknown park every sound was threatening: the brooding rustling of the trees, the creaking of leaves under Tenma’s soles; the looming _tu-thum, tu-thum, tu-thum_ s of Tenma’s heart, a macabre symphony that thundered in his ears, clouding his head and magnifying every little noise.

It was like being locked in a labyrinth. Without a clue and without a map, haunted by his own shadow.

The tension in his stomach grew fiercer and Tenma groaned, quietly, the pain too strong for him to swallow it down. He felt it vividly: his pride getting crushed beneath the ever-growing need to scream, to let somebody find him, to be taken by the hand. To be rescued—carried away from the darkness and from his thoughts.

But there was no one who could’ve saved him. So Tenma gulped it down and crumpled in on himself. He wrapped his arms around his stomach, tensing his shoulders up towards his ears, trying to find one more drop of courage inside of him. It would’ve been easier if he weren’t alone. Acting came natural in front of an audience, but under the murky light of the rising moon, Tenma couldn’t control the creeping feeling that made his thighs and knees a shaking mess.

He tried to convince himself that everything was all right, that he couldn’t be too far from the main gate, but while picking up his speed, every move driven by his unsettled heartbeats, a low murmuring caught his attention.

Tenma listened closely, his body tense, his back stiff. He didn’t know what to expect—if someone he could ask for directions, or someone he’d have to run away from. But that sound, low and deep, had clung to him, tugging some weird strings hidden in his chest, and was now luring him in like a puddle of light, whispering in his ear to come forward, to come closer, to let himself see.

So Tenma took a shaky first step. Then a second one, hesitant, and a third one, reluctant. At his fourth, the voice became vivid enough to guide him towards an oak tree, huge and old.

Tenma leaned on it with one sweaty hand and edged forwards. His saliva dried out in his throat.

He staggered back, feet unsure under unsteady thighs, and brought a hand to his mouth. He needed to quiet down—but his breath had grown louder. He needed to get out of there—but he couldn’t look away. His eyes were fixed in front of him, on the partly obscured body of a man on his knees, hands behind his back, mouth so stretched as if it had been slashed open, throat full to the brim with the crotch of another man who kept thrusting his hips forwards, choking out every objection with brutal rudeness. And Tenma—

A warm shiver run down his spine, heating him up from the outside—

_From the outside?_

Tenma’s eyes jumped open as a big, steady hand slid down his hip, towards his stomach, where that unknown palm spread wide against his abdomen, putting pressure on that knot of dread and distress that was swelling inside him. Soon after, another hand reached for his face, right where Tenma’s lips were gaping in a silent scream. Two thick fingers pushed past his teeth, slipping on his dry tongue, and filling his mouth like that of the man still on his knees in front of Tenma.

“Hush,” murmured a oh-so-rich voice right behind him. It was so close that Tenma felt a puff of air stroke his ear, while the sound echoed through his head. “We don’t want to bother them, now, do we?”

Tenma tripped on nothing and crashed with his back against the firm chest that had given birth to that voice. And even facing away, even with eyes half clouded by darkness, Tenma knew he couldn’t be wrong.

That person behind him—it wasn’t a stranger.

“ _Hmmhm!”_

“What did I just say, kid?” the voice growled, those hands tightening their hold. Tenma was on the verge of choking, and it wasn’t all because of the fingers inside his mouth, pushed forcefully deep down to the second knuckle. There was another issue as well: that one arm wrapped around his hips, that one hand pressed against his belly.

There, the pressure was almost asphyxiating. It was a mixture of dread, daze and relief that curled around his guts, pressing, squeezing, strangling, until all Tenma could feel were the stabbing twinges rushing through his hips, down his shaking thighs.

Tenma arched his back, trying to get away from the hold that kept him still, but that only made it tighter. He felt like prey enveloped in the coils of a snake: he couldn’t escape. With every movement, those arms bound him closer, that hand pressed stricter against his sweaty T-shirt, those fingers pushed him harder against the—Tenma groaned, the sound strained under two fingers lubed up with his spit—the erection now poking against the crease of his ass.

And then.

“Don’t turn around.” A curt command, intoned by that same oh-so-warm voice. It caressed him slowly, breath after breath, word after word; every syllable uttered only for Tenma. “Your size, it’s perfect. Your shoulders, your hips.” A chin, made scratchy by the shadow of a beard, rubbed against Tenma’s cheek. “The color of your hair. The way you squirm…” The word ended in a soft sigh, dreamy and distant. “You’re perfect,” he said again, “you’re exactly like him.”

_Him?_

Tenma’s knees gave out. He could only stay on his feet thanks to that hand flattened against him, against his belly—a hand that was now stroking him, digging under the hem of his T-shirt, pressing with the wrist against his abs, sinking with the pad of one finger inside the hollow of his navel. It pushed deep, there, sending Tenma into fits of tremors, his hamstrings tense to their breaking point, his mouth spilling with too much spit.

The voice behind him hummed. It was a satisfied “ _Hmmm,”_ almost gasping at the end—a sound that came right from the rib cage, low and deep.

The complete opposite of the croaked, high-pitched squeal that Tenma sobbed out a moment later, when those fingers slipped out of his mouth and pushed down his chest, under the band of his sweats and briefs, until they were wrapped around Tenma’s growing shape.

Then, one more triumphant hum, followed by a brief, “You’re so wet already,” and a big palm, warm and sticky, closing tight around him. The thumb traced along Tenma’s length, as if testing the texture of his skin, and soon reached Tenma’s slick head. There, it pressed against the exposed, sensitive slit, and Tenma gasped out a choked up moan.

And then one more. And another. What had been inconceivable a moment before had just gone out of hand. Tenma’s knees were shaking in the attempt to control himself; his abdomen hurt from that sensation of complete fullness. And those warm caresses, the friction of that palm, the calluses on those fingers, those thick fingertips—every little touch amplified the stuttering of his hips, pushing him against the hand that kept pressing against his stomach. Painful—insistent.

Desired.

Tenma whined, grabbing at the forearm wrapped around his hips, the one that kept him on his feet. He tried to push it away, to free himself, to wiggle out of that hold, but his arms had lost their strength. He had just enough left to glide down the exposed skin with his nails, scratching the hard muscles under him. That was the arm of an actor, an action actor who worked out daily to stay in shape, covered with a light brush of red hair, so similar to Tenma’s own. So similar they were almost identical; as if they were father and son.

But that wasn’t Tenma’s father. Because his father had never undressed him at night in a public park; he had never wrapped him in his warm hand, dirty with sweat and spit, stroking him to tremors; he had never held him in such a tight hug, pressing against Tenma with his full body – chest against his back, pelvis against his ass – forbidding Tenma to get away, to slide back, to be left alone.

Tenma’s father had never licked his tears right from his face, whispering in his ear how good he was at letting himself go, at shaking and gasping for him and him only.

Tenma melted under that voice, under those fingers folded around his erection, pressed against his swollen, stretched stomach. And then he couldn’t do it anymore: that pressure, that craving, those attentions—

Tenma collapsed to the ground.

The body behind him followed him down to the grassy soil and drew him on his lap. “You’re almost there,” he said, his voice kind of sweet, tempting. “Endure it for me, yeah?”

Tenma lifted his head, his eyes clouded by the tears. “Hi—Hiro-san…”

Hiro stopped dead in his tracks. For a single moment, his gaze travelled down on Tenma’s naked thighs, on his length still trapped in Hiro’s fist, on Tenma’s fingers wrapped around Hiro’s wrist, trying to break that hold, make it tighter, get away, get closer; and then higher, on Tenma’s bare stomach, swollen and panting, and on the T-shirt lifted on his chest, wet with the overflowing drool that kept staining Tenma’s chin and lips.

On Hiro’s face echoed a drop of realization—then dread and fury, and suddenly disappointment, an oh-so-bitter disappointment, that gave birth to a deep grimace, lips thin and curled out of revulsion.

Tenma flinched away as if he’d gotten himself burned and fell with his face flat on the ground.

“Tenma-kun,” was the first thing Hiro said, “what are you doing _here?_ ”

Tenma didn’t know how to answer. He _couldn’t_ answer. His throat was too busy holding back the stifled sobs that vibrated in his mouth; his hands, wrapped tight around his now-soft shape, were completely wet—and Tenma didn’t know _with what_.

Suddenly abandoned, slapped by that face of disappointment, Tenma’s body had given in—and with it, the knot of unease inside his abdomen started to loosen up, melting away in a warm fluid that, in a slow gushes, started dripping down his thighs, soiling him with that acrid, sharp, and oh-so-distinct smell.

“No…” he begged, shrinking on himself. “No… _No…_ ”

Hiro was at his side the moment after. Urgently, he wrapped one arm around Tenma, like he’d done before recognizing him, and held him tight against his chest. “Shhh,” he whispered then, his lips pressed against Tenma’s forehead, “let yourself go.”

Tenma kept murmuring a string of _No, no, no_ s, but it was useless—it was too late. He couldn’t stop. His bladder was too full, too painful, and Tenma’s hands weren’t enough to contain the flow of piss that kept slipping away through his fingers, between his thighs, on his pants, and gathered in a dark puddle right under him.

The worst part was the silence—such a vibrating silence, that made very sound, every sob, every whine so much louder. It was humiliating; so much that tears started streaming down Tenma’s face, so much that Tenma’s hands tightened around his base, cutting off the blood flow.

But Hiro wouldn’t grant him that mercy, and with careful movements he loosened the knot of Tenma’s fingers and brought Tenma’s hands to his chest, holding his wrists in an airtight grasp. With his other hand, he slipped through Tenma’s sweaty hair and forced Tenma to look at him.

Clearly, Hiro hadn’t had enough of punishing Tenma with that look of repulsion. He must be so furious he wasn’t holding a stranger in his arms, a _perfect_ stranger, one who looked like that _him_ that Hiro had named a few moments earlier—extremely furious that he was, instead, holding _him_ , Tenma, a little brat that Hiro couldn’t stand even at work, and whom he was now forced to take care of in such a surreal and disgusting situation.

And yet, Tenma had never thought Hiro could hate him _that_ much—so much as to disgrace him in the worst way possible, witnessing the most laughable of his performances: Tenma, unable to control his bladder.

Tenma squeezed his eyes shut and hid his dirty face against Hiro’s white shirt. He stayed there, quiet, uselessly trying to stop the endless string of sobs coming out of his mouth, until the flow between his legs became less painful and more lazy, and eventually stopped.

And then.

It started again, rocking Tenma’s hips with a shudder.

It happened two more times, and only the last one, the shortest and most shameful spurt, left him finally empty, satisfied, humiliated. Tenma felt worn out; he had no more breath nor tears, only exhaustion, an uncontrollable exhaustion, and the desire to bury himself six feet deep, never to be seen again.

But Hiro wasn’t going to give him that either. Instead, he ran his hand through Tenma’s hair, once more, and lifted his damp bangs to kiss his forehead, very gently—

_Very gently?_

Tenma tensed up like a rubber band ready to snap.

“It’s over,” Hiro said, moving his caresses to the back of Tenma’s head, down his sweating neck. He touched him with terrifying carefulness, with the kind of touch that Tenma would’ve expected from a father—his own father—and that, in truth, he’d never received.

Never before now.

Tenma gulped, confused, muttering an embarrassed, “Are you kidding me…”

“It isn’t?” Hiro said, carrying on with his caresses. “Let me see,” he added, and soon his hand was once again on Tenma’s belly. His fingers, as wet as Tenma’s, touched Tenma’s now empty bladder, then he opened his palm and pressed it on that spot that now carried Hiro’s handprint. “There’s nothing else here. Do you need to go again?”

Tenma shook his head hard, his face burning with humiliation, his eyes wide from the tears that threatened to start flowing again. He couldn’t even cover his face—his hands were greasy with piss and soil, a mixture that was as muddy as it was disgusting.

Hiro huffed, a sound that Tenma had gotten used to. He often heard it on set, when Tenma made hazardous, unprofessional demands.

He didn’t want to hear it now.

He tried to get up, but his legs were still unsteady and Hiro’s hold on him was too tight. He tried to wriggle away, but that was also useless—he was only risking to get himself dirtier, to fall with his knees on the nauseating puddle between his legs.

Tenma looked at it for one moment and clenched his fists, sinking his nails in the flesh of his palms.

He spoke before he could stop himself. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice, usually so firm, now shaking from the echo of his sobbing. “You can—Ah, you can let me go now.”

“Can you keep yourself up?”

“Yes.”

Hiro left Tenma’s body all at once, and Tenma staggered, his legs still stuck between the dirty ground and his lowered pants. He managed to stop himself before falling—but only because Hiro had grabbed him by the shoulder and had kept him up with his warm hand.

Hiro clicked his tongue. “It sure doesn’t look like it,” he said, annoyed, while Tenma shrunk with his head between his shoulders, trying to make himself small enough to disappear. After everything that had happened that night—after everything that had happened _in front of Hiro_ , Tenma didn’t know what to do. How to behave. How to look Hiro in the eyes. How to act like nothing had happened and forget everything—the humiliation, yes, but also that kind of twisted pleasure he’d felt, for a mere second, when Hiro had whispered in his ear, caressing his body.

That same pleasure he was feeling now, as Hiro’s fingers, squeezed between Tenma’s shoulder and face, tenderly stroked his cheek with rugged knuckles.

Tenma lifted his head up.

Hiro’s eyes were fixed on him.

He swiftly retracted his hand and Tenma looked down once again. Then, Hiro cleared his throat and said, “Come on up,” taking a step back to leave enough space for Tenma to get back on his feet.

And he did, but not without a good dose of embarrassment. He was unsteady in every movement; not because he couldn’t move, but because of his attempt at hiding, not showing himself more than he’d already done. Even if it _was_ difficult—his pants bore the mark of his shame and stuck to his body, dirty and wet, leaving behind a disgusting sensation on Tenma’s skin.

Hiro looked at him for a moment, then turned around. “Come with me,” he said, taking a step forward.

“I need to go home,” Tenma said, wrapping his arms around his own waist. “They’re waiting for me.”

“Then you should’ve stayed home.”

Tenma flinched, slapped once again by that strict voice.

Hiro confused him. At times, he spoke to him as if he were talking to a kid; other times, as if he wanted nothing to do with him at all. And then he turned around, like he was doing now, and his face morphed into an expression so inscrutable, but so vivid as to stand out even under the darkened lights of the old street lamps.

It never lasted long—a tinge of surprise, and then his eyebrows screwed upwards, the wrinkles around his eyes grew deeper, and his lips thinned into a firm line.

“You want your friends to see you like this?” Hiro said, his voice curt, pointing his chin towards Tenma’s pants, right where a dark stain sat on his crotch and dripped down the inside of his legs.

Tenma tried to cover himself, and Hiro’s face morphed one again.

“I’ve got a change of clothes in my car,” he said, so calm this time, almost gentle. “I’ll drive you back to the dorm.”

Tenma couldn’t refuse. He didn’t even know where he was; he didn’t know how to reach the main gate of the park, the main road, his way home. And his every movement was awkward, grown heavy because of his wet sweatpants, because of the fabric that stuck to his thighs and left behind the unmistakable sopping sound of his shame.

So he followed Hiro quietly, one step behind him, trying to keep himself on one side of the trail, right where the shadows would hide him, just a little, from any possible voyeur.

But the park was deserted. No one was around, not even the two men – Tenma swallowed audibly, shivering – who had sent him over the edge not much earlier, when he had found them behind the old oak.

Tenma shook his head and tried to look at the bright sight. At least they were sparing him the humiliation of being seen in that state.

Even if that wasn’t much better—not when Hiro had already seen it all.

Tenma bit his trembling lips, once again trying to hide his quiet sobs. He didn’t want to cry again; he just wanted to move past that night and forget it as soon as he could.

At least Hiro wasn’t talking to him. He was only escorting him, leaving Tenma in his own space, walking a couple of steps ahead. He stayed quiet until they reached the exit gate of the park, then he guided Tenma towards their right, into another little alley.

“Come here,” Hiro ordered then, dragging Tenma forward, down a residential area surrounded by city lights. “It’s late, there shouldn’t be many people around. But your face is too recognizable.”

“Not like yours is much better,” Tenma muttered.

“But I’m not the one who doesn’t want to be seen right now.”

Tenma felt his hands shake, his breath choking up in his throat. Shame quivered once more inside of him. It wouldn’t give him a break—and Tenma doubted he’d be able to free himself from it anytime soon.

Not with Hiro pressed against him, his hand on Tenma’s head, his fingers buried under Tenma’s locks. He was leading him down streets Tenma didn’t know, from which he wouldn’t be able to escape, not even if he tried.

Soon, they ended up in a dark patch of land. A parking lot—but there was only one car.

Hiro let him go, slid a key out of his pocket, and hurried to open the trunk of the car. He took out a gym bag, then dug up a change of clothes, a towel, and a bottle of water.

He offered them to Tenma and nodded vaguely with his chin. “Make it quick while no one’s here.”

Tenma’s eyes flew open. “I’m gonna change _here_?!”

“Where else?”

Tenma fell silent.

Hiro shook his head and took a step forward. He grabbed the bottle and poured some water on the towel; then he stepped even closer and pressed the towel against Tenma’s face to clean him up from the sweat, the tears, the spit and the soil.

Tenma closed his eyes for a long minute.

And then.

“Need help?”

Hiro was moving down, the towel now on Tenma’s chin, onto his sweaty throat. There, Hiro stopped briefly, before Tenma jumped up and grabbed Hiro’s wrist to prevent him from going south.

“No!” Tenma said quickly, his voice more high-pitched than he would’ve wanted. “I can do it alone. I can.”

Hiro nodded and took a step back.

Tenma hurried to take his dirty shirt off and quickly cleaned himself with the towel. He poured more water on it and closed his eyes, trying to swallow the embarrassment while preparing himself for what he had to do: getting undressed, again, in a place where anyone could’ve seen him—in a place where _Hiro_ could see him.

Hiro, who was now a few steps away from him, his gaze travelling around the park, coming back to Tenma from time to time to follow his movements.

“Could—Could you turn around?” Tenma said, stuttering.

Hiro looked caught off-guard. He opened his mouth once, closed it, and opened it again, as if wanting to say something. But he said nothing; he just turned towards the exit of the parking lot, his large shoulders covered in a now-dirty white shirt facing Tenma.

Tenma seized on the chance to take off his pants and briefs, cleaned his thighs and calves with the towel, and rushed to put one foot inside the pants Hiro had offered him. He stumbled briefly, tripping because of the haste, but soon after he was dressed, covered up and clean.

Even if the clothes were too loose on him.

Tenma wasn’t small; his training with Tasuku had long since started to bear fruit. But Hiro was simply bigger than him: his shoulders were broader, his arms bulkier, his legs long and strong. And his clothes proved it: they slipped down Tenma’s body, making him feel tiny, like a kid wearing his father’s shirts.

Tenma wrapped his arms around his chest and swallowed down. “I’m done,” he said, teeth gritting tight.

Hiro came closer and cleaned his hands with the leftover water. He picked Tenma’s clothes up from the ground, threw them and the towel inside a plastic bag, and closed the rear door with a sharp twist of his wrist. Then he turned towards Tenma and pointed at the car with his thumb.

Tenma reached out for the backseat.

“I’m not your driver,” Hiro said, one foot already inside the car. “Sit in the front.”

Tenma did, reluctantly.

He didn’t even have time to sit down before Hiro made him flinch once more. “The seatbelt,” he said, curt, not even bothering to look at him.

Tenma grew smaller in his seat. Then he reached for the seatbelt, wrapped it around his chest, twisting his body to find the hole of the buckle end. He tried once, twice, but his hands were shaking so much he couldn’t get the belt in its place.

And then.

Hiro noticed and leaned towards him. He moved Tenma’s hands away from the seatbelt and with a swift motion he slotted it into its clasp, pulling at it once to be sure that Tenma was strapped in like a little child.

“Thanks,” Tenma said, his voice faint.

Hiro huffed out a laugh, a sound so unusual that Tenma thought he’d just imagined it. “It’s nothing, kid.”

Oh, Tenma was _surely_ hallucinating. It was unthinkable that Hiro could call him like that, with that voice, with that laugh—it was unthinkable that Tenma had liked it so much.

Tenma averted his eyes. But it was useless: Hiro’s presence next to him was unrelenting. Tenma felt warmth radiate from Hiro’s body; Hiro’s smell rising from the exposed skin of his neck. It was a mixture of aftershave, sweat and something else—that same smell that Tenma felt on himself.

His face burned red.

Hiro looked at him, worried. “Are you alright?” he asked, following with one hand the trail of the seatbelt to reach Tenma’s chest. “Is it too tight?”

“No,” Tenma gritted out, turning his eyes towards his window, “it’s all good.”

Hiro patted him, satisfied. “Then let’s go.” And he put on his seatbelt, kicked the engine to a start, and headed for the main street.

Tenma tried to pay attention to the residential homes, to the streets they were riding on, but the night was too dark and the lamplight too shallow. The only source of light came from inside the car and it bounced against the window, projecting the picture before it: Hiro, sitting on the driving seat, his arms reaching out towards the wheel.

His forearms were bare, exposed by the white shirt rolled up at his elbows, and on his skin shone with the trail of reddish hair that Tenma had felt earlier under his fingers. The hair grew sparse around the wrist and it disappeared almost entirely on the back of his hand—the same hand that, huge and warm, had pressed against Tenma’s belly not too long ago—the same hand that had wrapped Tenma in a tight hold and had stroked him in a place that was still warm because of those attentions.

Tenma slammed his head against the window.

“Hey,” Hiro called out, reaching out with one hand to dip his fingers into Tenma’s hair. “Don’t fall asleep on me.”

Tenma inadvertently closed his eyes at that touch. He opened them once again and turned his head towards Hiro. His face had mellowed out, the wrinkles between his eyebrows now almost relaxed. Even his voice sounded softer when, moving his caresses down Tenma’s neck, Hiro asked, “Are you sure you want to go back to the dorm?”

“Where else should I go?”

Hiro opened his mouth briefly. Then he closed it, shut his lips in a tight line, face unreadable, and moved his hand away from Tenma’s body.

At this point Tenma didn’t know what to expect anymore, but he flinched still when soon after Hiro hissed, “What were you doing _there_?”, his voice sharp and disappointed.

Tenma looked at him, startled. “ _There_ where?”

“The park.”

“I was just—just walking around.”

Hiro frowned. “At night?”

“What’s that,” Tenma said, his voice more vicious than planned, “can’t I walk around at night?”

“Not _there_ ,” Hiro growled.

Tenma lowered his eyes to his hands now sitting on his lap. He’d cleaned them with the wet towel, but that slimy, greasy feeling kept stinging his skin.

“I was running,” he said after a silent moment. “I just ended up there. I don’t, uh, don’t know how I got there.”

For a brief second, the car fell quiet. Then Hiro cursed under his breath, making Tenma flinch back.

It was unusual seeing him like this. Hiro wore all his emotions on his face, but made up for that transparency with the attention he put in his every word. Every sentence was thoroughly thought-out—never a word more than needed, his voice firm and professional, with such a deep seriousness that kept you at arm’s length.

But now that mask had started to crumble.

“What’s wrong with that park?” Tenma said, now suddenly curious.

Hiro threw a glance at Tenma, clicking his tongue. The irritation was vivid in the grimace on his lips, in the way Hiro was gritting his teeth.

“ _The Ruins_ ,” he said after a long moment, almost reluctantly. “That’s the name of the park. Well, not the official name, but.”

Tenma tilted his head in confusion. “Ruins?”

“Yes, _The Ruins_. It’s a cruising spot.” At Tenma’s even more confused face, Hiro sighed and said, “A meeting place. For men. To do… what you saw tonight.”

_What you_ felt _tonight_ , a small voice in Tenma’s head added.

As if that conversation wasn’t awkward enough already.

“I—I didn’t know,” Tenma muttered, voice stiff, almost mechanical. He tried to think of something else to say, but he couldn’t find the right words, the right explanations, the right questions.

And then.

“But, what were you doing…”

Hiro hit the brakes. “We’re here,” he said curtly, his back straight, his hands clasped on the wheel.

Tenma guessed there was nothing else to add. After all, Hiro had already told him what he was doing at the park: he was looking for someone who _looked_ like Tenma, but simply _wasn’t_ Tenma.

Everything else was a mistake they needed to forget.

Tenma nodded slowly. He felt like he needed to say something, but it was hard to understand _what_. Should he have thanked him for the ride? Apologized for having troubled him? Gotten angry because of what Hiro had done to him? His mind was too confused, too fogged up. Every thought was distorted by the shame he felt, and that only grew worse when Tenma noticed he hadn’t really hated it—not as much as he should have.

Because now he had something that bound him to Hiro.

Tenma winced and rushed to undo his seatbelt. “Ah, I—”

Hiro grabbed his chin. He forced Tenma to turn his head and lift his eyes to look at him directly. Then, with a voice so slow and strict, he said, “Don’t go back there.”

Tenma could only nod.

Hiro’s fingers lingered on him for a moment longer. His index finger was curled under Tenma’s chin, while his thumb slowly traced the corner of his mouth, following down the trails of his lips. There, Hiro paused, his expression once again unreadable, his brow frowning. And then—

Hiro tensed up. “You were dirty,” he said quickly, pulling his hand and his eyes away from Tenma’s face. “Take a shower before you go to bed.”

Tenma burned up red once again. Memories of that night were still bright and vivid inside his head, intent on not giving him any break. Not even when Tenma exited the car, muttering a low, “See you tomorrow.” Not even when Tenma climbed the stairs of the dorm, rushed towards the bathroom, and tried to scrape away the dirt that was left on his skin.

But his face was clean. And that feeling—it would never let him go.

**Author's Note:**

> Actually planning an even worse sequel with even more piss and daddy issues, but until then find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/zenzeromante) for more Dumb Bitch Hirosan content >:) 
> 
> Also, English is not my first language, so comments & concrit are very appreciated (just be gentle or I will cry, sorry........)


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